He Discarded Me , Now I Own Him.

ELENA POV I close my eyes tightly and pray. Please let this be a bad dream. Please let me wake up in my own bed, in my own room, with the sound of my mother humming in the kitchen. A knock comes at the door. Three sharp raps. “Mrs. Calloway. It is seven o'clock.” The voice pulls me back. The marriage is real. I am married. I open my eyes. The ceiling is not mine. It is high and white and cold. The walls are gray and bare. The air smells like polish and old flowers. I cannot believe this is my life now. I sit up slowly. My body feels heavy. I look down at my hands. They are my hands, but they do not feel like they belong to me anymore. I get dressed. There is no mirror in my room, so I do not know what I look like. I run my fingers through my curls and walk downstairs. The dining room is long and cold. A table stretches far enough for twenty people, but only three chairs are filled. Harold at the head. Catherine to his right. Marcus at the opposite end, scrolling through his phone. No one looks up when I walk in. “You are late,” Marcus says without raising his eyes. “I was not told the time,” I say. He does not answer. He just gestures to a chair near him. I sit. A maid places a plate in front of me. Eggs. Toast. A single strawberry. My stomach is tight, but I pick up my fork. “You will attend an event tonight,” Marcus says. “Be ready at six.” “What event?” I ask. He looks at me like I have asked something stupid. “An event. Wear something appropriate.” I want to ask more—what kind of event, where, who will be there—but his mother clears her throat. The sound is sharp. A warning. I close my mouth. The morning passes slowly. I try to find something to do, but every door is closed. The staff moves around me like I am furniture. No one says good morning. No one asks how I slept. I wander into the kitchen. The cooks are busy, but they stop when they see me. They stare. I pick up a cloth from the counter and start wiping. A cook looks at me strangely. “You do not have to do that, ma'am.” “I know,” I say. But I do it anyway. If I sit in that room one more minute, I will scream. She says nothing else. She turns back to her pots. I wipe the same spot on the counter for a long time. At four, a maid brings a box to my room. Inside is a dress—deep green, silk, expensive. I hold it up. It is beautiful. It is also not mine. I put it on. It fits perfectly. At six, I walk down the stairs. Marcus is waiting in the front hall. He looks at the dress. He nods once. “You look presentable,” he says. I wanted him to say beautiful. Or even fine. But presentable is all I get. We drive to the event in silence. The city lights blur past the window. I press my forehead against the glass. The event is in a hotel ballroom. Crystal chandeliers. Gold trim. Women in gowns that cost more than my father's car. Marcus takes my arm. His grip is firm. “Stay here,” he says, steering me to a corner near a pillar. “Do not move. Do not talk to anyone. I will come get you when it is time to leave.” “I cannot just stand here all night,” I say. “You can,” he says. “And you will.” He walks away. He disappears into the crowd. I stand alone for hours. My feet ache. My back hurts. He does not look at me. He laughs with other people. I am invisible. I am a decoration he brought to show that he has a wife. On the ride home, I try to speak. “Marcus—” “Quiet,” he says. He does not even glance at me. He scrolls through his phone like I am not there. Back at the house, I walk toward the stairs. “Stop,” he says. I turn. He is standing in the middle of the foyer, his arms crossed. “One of the staff told me you were cleaning the kitchen this morning,” he says. My stomach drops. “I was just trying to help.” “Help?” His voice rises. “You are a Calloway now. Calloways do not clean kitchens. Do you understand?” “I was bored,” I say. “I was lonely. There is nothing for me to do in this house.” “There is plenty for you to do,” he says. “Stay in your room. Stay out of sight. Do not embarrass me. That is your job.” “That is not a marriage,” I say. “That is a prison.” He steps closer. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. He squeezes hard. Pain shoots up my arm. “You do not tell me what marriage is,” he says through his teeth. His face is inches from mine. I can smell his cologne—sharp and cold. “You signed the papers. You agreed to this. Now you will do as you are told.” I try to pull away, but his grip is iron. My fingers go numb. “Do you understand?” he asks. “Yes,” I whisper. He releases me. My wrist is red. There will be bruises tomorrow. He turns and walks toward the east wing without another word. I stand alone in the foyer. The chandelier above me casts cold light on the marble floor. That night, I sit on the edge of my bed and cry. I cry for my mother. I cry for my father. I cry for the girl I used to be—the one who laughed at the kitchen table, who sketched flowers in her notebook, who believed that marriage meant love. Why did they marry me? I wonder. They do not want me. They do not even like me. Why go through all of this just to lock me in a room? I have no answer. Months pass. Nothing changes. I wake. I eat alone. I sit in my room. I go to events where Marcus shows me off like a decoration. He does not let me talk to anyone. He does not let me leave his sight. The bruises on my wrist fade, but new ones come. Sometimes from his hand. Sometimes from his words. They all hurt the same. I try to have hope. I tell myself things will get better. Maybe he will change. Maybe his parents will see me. Maybe the staff will say good morning one day. But they do not. My life only gets worse. The cheerful girl I once was is fading. I do not know how much longer I can hold on.